


When I Come Around

by DiscontentedWinter



Series: Baby Daddy [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 18:38:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17208794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscontentedWinter/pseuds/DiscontentedWinter
Summary: John Stilinski is oblivious, right up until he's not.





	When I Come Around

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bunnywest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/gifts).



 

Jacinta Pope is dedicated, smart, always upbeat, and John Stilinski _hates_  her.

“Come on, John,” she urges him as he’s lying on a foam mattress on the floor and she’s leaning over him with his ankle on her shoulder—an awkward and innuendo-filled position that John would be a hell of a lot more amused by if everything didn’t hurt like hell. “One more. Let’s extend that leg.”

John is sweating like a Florida summer, and he grunts as he tries to obey.

Thirteen months ago, John was shot in the line of duty. He took one bullet to the abdomen, which was surprisingly the uncomplicated part, and one to his knee. He’s since had two knee reconstructions, with a break between them for a staph infection that landed him back in the ICU. His latest, and hopefully last, surgery was only eight weeks ago, and it’s Jacinta’s job to get him back on his feet, and back to work.

She calls herself his necessary evil.

“Come on,” she tells him again when she can sense he’s flagging. “You want to be able to run around after that honorary grandbaby of yours, right?”

John grunts again, and puts more effort into extending his leg. “He’s three weeks old. He’s not going to be running around for a while.”

“Right,” Jacinta agrees. “But you want to be able to catch up to him when he does!”

Jamie Hale is John’s biological grandson, but that’s not common knowledge. Of course, the kid popped out with Stiles’s big dark eyes and snub nose, so John can absolutely see the resemblance, but the fact that Stiles was Laura’s sperm donor—a decision he made in a moment of total reckless stupidity that John now can’t regret for a second—is a secret.

And, weirdly, not the strangest secret about Jamie.

At all.

Because werewolves exist, and Jamie might have inherited his nose from John’s side of the family, but he inherited the werewolf thing from the Hales.

Werewolves. _Exist_.

Sometimes John still has moments when his brain seizes on that incredible fact and he has to pause and question his own sanity for a moment, because really? _Really_? He’s seen it with his own two eyes, and he still sometimes can’t believe it.

“Okay,” Jacinta says, after she allows him a moment to catch his breath. “One more.”

“That’s what you said about the last one!”

She shows him a wicked smile. “It’s what I’m going to say about the next one too.”

John lets go a stream of curses, safe in the knowledge that Jacinta’s heard worse.

She pulls her “one more” bullshit on him another five times before his session ends.

 

***

 

The house is quiet when Parrish drops John at home. Stiles has a late class, which means Derek has probably gone back to the loft he ostensibly shares with Laura and little Jamie, although he spends most nights in Stiles’s room. So John is very surprised when he gets inside, leaning heavily on his cane—he got rid of the crutches last week, an event he and Stiles celebrated with curly fries—and finds Peter Hale in his kitchen.

“How was your session?” Peter asks.

“Fine,” John lies. And yes, he knows Peter can tell when he’s lying, but a man still has his dignity to preserve. “Why are you in my house?”

“Stiles gave me a key,” Peter says.

“I asked _why_ , Peter, not _how_.”

“I’m making you dinner,” Peter says, as though that doesn’t raise more questions instead of answering one.

Although… whatever’s in the oven does smell amazing. John’s mouth waters.

Peter smirks knowingly. “It’s roast duck with blackberry and orange sauce. It’ll be ready in about twenty minutes. You’ve got time for a shower.”

Ah, and there it is. A reminder that John stinks like the bottom of the laundry hamper back in Stiles’s high school lacrosse days.

He grunts in acknowledgement, and heads painstakingly upstairs.

He wonders, under the soothing hot spray of the shower, if a more sensible man would be terrified of Peter Hale. Peter is the left hand of the Hale pack—both the tactician and the enforcer—and John has seen his work before. He’s the one who signed off on the report that said Kate Argent’s death was suicide, after all. He’s the one who suggested Peter cut her throat instead of tearing it out, precisely so he could frame his report like that.

John crossed a line that day that he’d never imagined he’d cross. And he doesn’t regret it either. The world is a lot stranger than John once gave it credit for, and there are things that fall beyond the scope, and the reach, of the law. John can admit his limitations. He can also admit that Kate Argent made the decision very, very easy for him by kidnapping and attacking Stiles as well. So he’s crossed a line that he never imagined he would, and wonders sometimes if he should feel uneasy for not feeling uneasy about it at all.

And then he thinks of Stiles, and of Jamie, and knows that he’d do it again in a heartbeat.

And that’s one thing he absolutely has in common with Peter Hale. He wonders if that’s why Peter’s here. There’s a sort of camaraderie in what they did, he supposes, or at least an understanding. John doesn’t want to think of Kate’s ex-judicial execution as a bonding experience exactly, but he can’t deny that’s exactly what happened. Both Peter and John—and Jordan Parrish—learned that day just how far the others would go. And it turned out they’d go as far as necessary to protect their own. John might not revel in it the way that Peter does with his smirk and his sparkling eyes, but it doesn’t exactly keep him up at nights either.

He can live with it.

The water sluices down John’s aching body as he balances awkwardly in the shower, but the heat loosens the muscles that Jacinta tortured in his physical therapy session. John stands in the shower and enjoys the warmth until his stomach growls and reminds him that Peter’s cooking duck. John doesn’t think he’s ever cooked duck. There’s a descending catalogue of poultry, right? Duck is barely a step down from quail, and a hell of a long way up from roast chicken. Duck is oddly extravagant, but if John’s learned anything about Peter in the last few months, it’s that Peter can be a total snob.

He’s not fooling anyone though. John once caught a ride with him to the loft one night, and watched, amused, as Peter fumbled with his car’s stereo, switching songs from Green Day’s _Brain Stew_ to something classical. Peter’s inner child, John suspects, is an angry punk teen with dyed black hair, a ripped t-shirt, and leather wristbands.

“You ever see them live?” he asked that night.

“I skipped school once to go to a concert in Irvine.” Peter’s mouth had quirked. “My mother was livid. You?”

“Couple of times,” John had said. “Way before Stiles came along.”

“Huh.” Peter had side-eyed him, and flicked back to _Brain Stew_.

John hums _King For a Day_ as he dries himself and dresses. It’s a process that’s harder than it should be, but it’s not as bad as a few months ago. It’s difficult to remember how he once used to do this in minutes, complaining of the middle-aged twinges in his back. Well, John thinks as he inspects the scar on his abdomen and the raised knots of tissue on his knee, that’s what you get for bitching. Point taken, universe.

Finally dressed in comfortable sweatpants and a t-shirt, John reaches for his cane and works his way carefully back down the stairs.

Dinner is waiting in the dining room. John can’t remember the last time he and Stiles used the dining room. The kitchen table is closer to the refrigerator, right? And the living room couch is closer to the TV. Yeah, they’re a class act, him and Stiles.

“I didn’t even know we had tablecloths,” he admits as he limps inside the dining room.

“If you do, they’re very well hidden,” Peter tells him with a smirk. “Fortunately I’m not a total philistine.”

John snorts, and sits down, resting his cane against the edge of the table. “So, what’s the occasion?”

“Does there have to be an occasion?” Peter asks.

“I suppose not.” John surveys the baked vegetables and the bread—it’s fresh too, and smells heavenly—as Peter vanishes for a moment. And then he’s back, setting the roast duck down on the table. “Jesus. That looks amazing.”

Peter sits down opposite him, and begins to carve the duck. “I was taking a look at your roof earlier. It needs some repairs.”

“Mmm.” John reaches for his cutlery as Peter slides a plate over to him. “It’s first thing on the list for when I’m back on my feet. I’d ask Stiles to do it, but…”

“But Stiles should never be trusted with power tools.” Peter’s mouth quirks. “Well, I don’t have a job right now, and Derek barely does, so I’m sure we can take a look at it for you.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking,” Peter points out. “I’m volunteering.”

“You’re always doing stuff like this,” John says, feeling ungrateful and churlish just by saying it. “I’m not a charity case, Peter.”

Peter tilts his head suddenly. “John?”

“Yeah?”

Peter’s gaze is sharp, and there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s called courting, you idiot.”

John’s jaw drops. “What?”

“This,” Peter says, gesturing to the table. “The meals, the movie nights, the gifts, the bacon sandwiches we’re not telling Stiles about, and the repairs around the place. I’m _courting_ you.”

“No you’re not,” John says, because _what_?  

Peter shrugs, and stabs a baby potato with his fork. “Well, not very effectively, obviously, since you haven’t noticed. But I’m certainly attempting it. Now eat your duck before it goes cold.”

John eats his duck.

It just—it doesn’t make any _sense_. John is pushing fifty, he’s practically crippled, and he has love handles that have joined forces to become a paunch. Why the hell would Peter Hale want to court _him_? Peter is objectively attractive. John knows that.

But also, Peter might be _subjectively_  attractive? It’s entirely possible that John doesn’t just look at Peter and file away that he’s good looking. It’s possible that John, personally, is attracted to him. The butterflies in his stomach when he looks at Peter now, in this new and astonishing light, are unexpected, but they aren’t unpleasant. John can easily imagine kissing this man, and more.

John thinks that he _wants_  to kiss this man, and more.

It’s a startling realisation.

How it is possible that John has made it through five decades of existence without suspecting he swings this way? Is that even the terminology? Jesus. He doesn’t know. He’s forty-six years old, and doesn’t even know the right words for something like this.

Werewolves are real: crazy.

John is attracted to a man: well, that’s practically mundane, isn’t it? It’s so mundane that it slipped entirely through John’s defences, and he didn’t even realise it had happened. But here it is, a warm, bubbly feeling in his chest, making itself known now that he has a name for it although, if John’s honest with himself, it’s been there for a little while now.

He thinks back to last week, when he combed his hair carefully and put on some new aftershave before Peter came over to watch a game of football with him.

Fuck. He’s an _idiot_.

Peter, as though he can hear the wheels turning in John’s skull, flashes him a knowing smile.

“These potatoes are a little undercooked,” John says, to be an asshole.

Peter cocks an eyebrow. “I can hear it when you lie, John.”

“You can’t even let me have that, huh?” John asks.

“No,” Peter says. His smile grows. “But I’ll let you have anything else you want.”

John almost chokes on a perfectly cooked baby potato.

 

***

 

John wakes up the next morning to the sound of footsteps on the roof as Peter and Derek get to work.

 

***

 

A recipe book appears on the kitchen counter, bookmarked with colourful sticky notes. John limps downstairs one morning to find Stiles flicking through it.

“This stuff is fancy,” Stiles says. “Has Peter been making all of this?”

John makes a noise that he hopes passes as assent.

“Ugh,” Stiles says, and tosses the book back onto the counter. “Why are there never any leftovers?”

Is that tacit approval of their tentative relationship, John wonders, or did Stiles inherit John’s obliviousness?

It’s seven o’clock in the morning though, and John hasn’t had his coffee yet. There’s no way he’s having this conversation with Stiles. Not now, and possibly not ever.

 

***

 

“The last person I slept with was my wife,” John says over dinner the next week.

Peter pauses for a moment, the ladle held over the soup tureen.

Who the fuck owns a soup tureen instead of just serving it straight from the pot? Peter Hale, that’s who.

Peter raises his eyebrows. “Well, I’m not sure why you’re telling me this over the coconut chicken soup, but okay.”

John’s knee throbs and aches thanks to another torture session with Jacinta, and he leans forward carefully as he extends his leg under the table. “I’m saying that I might not be able to give you what you want. Not that I can see why you’d want me anyway since—”

“Stop right there,” Peter says. He sets a bowl of soup down in front of John, and then takes his seat. “You are loyal, and you are smart, and you are a fighter. You risked your life to protect the pack. You have all the best qualities of a wolf, John, even though you’re human. You’re also not as old and decrepit as you think you are, and—” He lowers his voice to an indecent pitch and smirks. “—I can think of _plenty_  of ways to demonstrate just how attractive I find you.”

A jolt of lust runs through John. Holy _shit_.

Peter picks up his spoon and dips it into his soup. “But…”

“But?” John hates how his voice is suddenly so hoarse.

“But I spent almost a decade of my life in a coma, dreaming of revenge every second of every day,” Peter says. He shrugs lazily “I know how to be patient. Besides, I figure you’re worth the wait.”

“You do?” John snorts at that, and relaxes a little. “You’re so sure I’ll come around, huh?”

“Oh, yes,” Peter says. He lifts his spoon and sips his soup. “Believe me, John. I’m worth the wait as well.”

John tastes his soup. “I’ll bet you are.”

It’s not often that he gets to see a flicker of surprise in Peter’s eyes, and John discovers that he likes it.

 

***

 

Every Sunday the pack comes over for a barbecue, since John has the only house with a backyard. Laura and Derek and Jamie live in the loft—the house is still getting built in the Preserve—and everyone else is in apartments. John, because standing up for too long leaves him hurting, is glad to foist off cooking duties to Boyd and Derek, and sits on a fold-out chair on the back lawn, under the shade of a large sun umbrella. He holds Jamie on his lap. Every day Jamie seems to have grown. He’s smiling now, and a lot more interested in the world around him.

Stiles gets the sprinkler hooked up, and all the kids—anyone under thirty is a kid in John’s book—strip down to their underwear and dance through the water. John laughs, and wonders what the hell the neighbours are thinking.

Peter pulls up a chair beside John’s, and they provide commentary to Jamie about which idiot aunt or uncle is currently making a spectacle of themselves under the spray. It’s mostly Stiles and Erica.

Then Parrish comes over to collect Jamie, and goes and stands with him on the edge of the sprinkler’s reach, mirroring his wide-eyed astonishment as the droplets of water hit them. Laura walks over to stand with them, and she and Parrish lean toward one another in a way that’s not quite smooth and natural yet but, John thinks, will be soon.

He catches Peter watching them with a half-smile on his face.

“You sap,” he says under his breath.

Peter’s smile grows, and he shrugs. “So what if I am?”

And then Stiles brings out the super soakers, and even John and Peter get caught in the crossfire.

 

***

 

Peter stays late to help Stiles and Derek clean up, and John sits on the couch and goes through the photos he took of Jamie on his phone. There’s a cute one of his ‘honorary’ grandson he’ll show to Jacinta next week. And there’s one of Stiles holding Jamie that John won’t show to anyone. Stiles looks a little shell-shocked, as though he’s only just noticed their resemblance. John knows he was right when he told Stiles all those months ago that it wouldn’t be easy giving up his child the way he has, and he hates that he said it in anger back then, but he was still right. For all that Stiles calls himself Jamie’s uncle, John can tell by the expression the photo captured that Stiles is still battling a little with the emotions behind his decision.

It is what it is.

Stiles will figure it out in his own time, and John can’t make it any easier for him. He can only be there for him if he needs to talk about it. And eventually, John knows, it will become second nature for Stiles to think of Jamie as his nephew. It’s just a matter of getting there. Ultimately, John hates that Stiles felt the need to do what he did, but at the same time he’s proud of the gift that Stiles gave to Laura, and proud that the kid he raised chose to do something so selfless. He’s also proud of how maturely Stiles has handled everything since Jamie was born.

Well, super soakers aside.

 _Life is messy_ , Claudia used to say, but she said it with a smile like she wouldn’t have it any other way.

John wishes she were still here. She would have loved the pack. She would have loved the way their house was full of laughter again these days.

“Dad?” Stiles ticks his head around the living room doorway. “I’m gonna stay over at Derek’s, okay?”

“You’ve got class tomorrow,” John reminds him with a smile.

“And I would never cut class in order to spend the day with my boyfriend,” Stiles says, his expression so seriously earnest that John’s not fooled for a second. “ _Never_.”

John, snorting, waves him away, and reaches for the remote control.

He channel surfs for a while, and then looks up again as Peter steps into the living room with a beer each. He settles down on the couch beside John, and puts his feet up on the coffee table.

“What are we watching?”

“Some bullshit,” John says. There are car chases and explosions, and a chisel-jawed superhero in a latex suit. Stiles probably has it on DVD.

Peter sips his beer and they watch for a while in silence. John sneaks the occasional glance at Peter and then, feeling a rush of courage, reaches out and laces their fingers together.

Peter looks at him, and smiles, and squeezes his hand in return.

 

***

 

Hours later, when Peter helps him up to his bedroom, it happens. It’s inevitable, John thinks. He can’t deny this thing between them any longer. He doesn’t want to.

“I haven’t done this in a while,” he says, unbuttoning his shirt with suddenly fumbling fingers.

Peter steps into his space, his gaze intent, and helps him with the buttons. “Neither have I.”

John raises his eyebrows.

“I was in a coma, John,” Peter reminds him.

“And before that?” John asks. “Was there anyone special?”

Peter slides John’s shirt off his shoulders. “Nobody special. I’m glad though. If I’d had someone, I probably would have lost them in the fire.”

John’s stomach twists. “Sorry.”

Peter’s mouth quirks. “I can talk about it. I mean, I’d rather not when I’m trying to get laid here, but it’s not a taboo subject for me. The fire made me the man I am, for better or for worse. For worse, probably.” He juts his chin out like he’s daring John to call him a liar.

John wonders if there’s any safe way to respond to the challenge. “I like that man well enough. I wouldn’t be standing here with him if I didn’t.”

Peter’s confronting expression fades, and for a moment he looks almost vulnerable. His smile is shaky as he lifts his hand and runs his fingertips down the side of John’s face. “Thank you, John.”

John doesn’t think that many people get to see this side of Peter Hale, soft and exposed. He leans in, ignoring the pain in his knee, and presses their mouths together. It’s gentle at first, tentative, and John raises his hand to cup the back of Peter’s neck. It’s as though that touch gives Peter permission; he surges closer, hands on John’s hips, pulling their bodies flush and deepening the kiss. John feels the press of Peter’s erection against his thigh, and it doesn’t feel strange at all. It feels good. It feels powerful, knowing that Peter is turned on too, that John did that.

Their kiss is hot, a little messy and wet, but the touch of Peter’s tongue against his causes his skin to prickle, makes his dick throb, and heralds a rush of heat throughout his body. It’s been _years_ , John thinks, years since anyone made him feel sexual. And he didn’t even know, right until this moment, how much he’d missed it. That hunger, and that spark. That energy.

He draws back and holds Peter’s brilliant blue gaze and sees everything he’s feeling reflected in it.

“Peter, I,” he begins, and that’s when he knee gives out. “Jesus!”

Peter catches him before he stumbles, and helps him backwards and eases him down onto the bed.

John grimaces, straightening his leg carefully. “So much for that, huh?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Peter tilts his head. “I think I can work with it.”

And then he drops down onto his knees.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

John’s breath escapes him on a strangled sound as he realises exactly what Peter has in mind.

Peter’s smirk reappears as he runs his hands slowly up John’s thighs, his thumbs rubbing against the inseams of his jeans, and John fights the urge to slam his knees together like he’s some nervous virgin. He wants this. He wants this with every atom of his being.

Peter leans back on his heels for a moment, and licks his lips.

“Fucking tease,” John says, his voice as low as a growl.

Peter grins. “You say that like it’s a bad thing, John. Please. You know I’m a sure thing.”

It’s a joke, but yes, John knows it. Peter is a sure thing. A steady thing. Strong enough to be a foundation to build a future on. John’s known that for months now. Peter is pack, and pack is family, and John wants him in any way he can have him.

Peter reaches for the button of John’s fly, and pops it without breaking his gaze.

“Come up here for a second,” John says, and holds out his hand.

Peter’s brows tug together slightly, but he lifts himself up and leans in.

John cups his face in both hands, his thumbs rubbing gently along his cheekbones. He’s beautiful. Peter Hale is beautiful.

“What?” Peter asks softly.

John draws him in for another kiss, sweeter and softer than their first and, he hopes, one that is filled with all the love and respect and affection and pride he feels for this man. Everything that he is, and everything that he feels, he tries to put into the kiss. And then, when he’s drawn back again and left Peter blinking, he whispers, “I love you.”

Peter raises his eyebrows.

“This is new,” John says. “And maybe I’m a fool for saying it, but I love you.”

Peter’s throat bobs as he swallows. “I love you too.”

And this moment, John thinks, is as close to perfection as he’s felt in years.

Peter ruins it, of course.

“Can I blow you now?” he asks with a wicked grin.

John laughs. “Yes. Please feel free.”

Being with this man is going to be a hell of a ride.

 

***

 

They fall into a routine, more or less. As John heals and becomes more active, their sex life transitions from the things they were physically constrained to doing onto the things they’ve both been fantasizing about for months. The first time John sinks his dick into Peter’s ass, it’s phenomenal. The first time Peter rims him is fucking transcendent. And after that, John runs out of superlatives.

Werewolf stamina is a thing, it turns out, and it’s not a thing that John can match yet, but every day he’s getting stronger and stronger. Jacinta is delighted with his progress, and so is John’s orthopaedic specialist. There will be no third round of knee surgery, thank fuck, and, best of all, John has been cleared to start back at work on light duties.

He feels like a new man.

For over a year he’s been crippled, and more or less a shut in, and now he’s got his life back. And it’s a much larger life than before, if he’s honest with himself. He’s got a pack now, and a grandson, and Stiles is happier than he’s been in a long while, and John also has Peter which, at the most basic level, means he’s never going to have to eat another frozen dinner in his life.

“What’s the occasion?” he asks one evening, unbuckling his gun belt as he walks into the house. His knee still aches, but it’s getting better every day, and his full range of movement is almost back.

“Hmm,” Peter says thoughtfully. “It’s Monday.”

“Monday’s an occasion now?”

“John, every day with me is an occasion,” Peter replies loftily.

“You got me there,” John tells him, and kisses him.

They’re… not subtle. John figures that the pack knows they're together, but it’s still not a conversation anyone’s had. And John’s kidding himself if he thinks they’re flying under the radar. Last week he took Peter for a drive in his cruiser up to the lookout in the Preserve. They’d been watching the stars and listening to Green Day when the next thing John knew was Parrish was knocking on his window.

“Everything okay, Sheriff?”

“Uh, yeah.” John’s face had been burning. “Peter just, ah, dropped something in the footwell.”

Parrish had nodded, angling his flashlight beam into the interior of the car. “Looks like the only thing he’s dropped is your pants, Sheriff.”

He had a poker face too, the asshole.

“Deputy Parrish,” John had said while Peter giggled like a schoolboy from the vicinity of his lap, “I’m saying this as your boss and as your friend. Fuck off and find somewhere else to patrol.”

“Yes, sir.” Parrish had tipped his hat, obviously trying to hide a smile, and walked back to his cruiser.

So no, they’re not exactly subtle, and John should have known it’d come back to bite him in the ass sooner rather than later.

“Oh!” Stiles exclaims, bursting into the kitchen like a whirlwind. “Seriously? Right in front of my salad?”

John pulls away from Peter, clearing his throat. “Since when do you eat salad?”

“It’s a meme,” Stiles says, like that’s in any way an explanation. “Also, totally happy for you, Dad, but yeesh, a little warning would be nice.”

“Stiles,” John says steadily. “You might catch me and Peter making out in the future. There. That’s your damn warning.”

Stiles opens his mouth, pauses, and then shrugs. “You know what? That’s fair. Hey, Peter, what’s for dinner?”

So that, John figures, is the conversation after all.

It went pretty well, he thinks.

 

***

 

“Seriously,” Stiles says a few months later, bouncing Jamie on his knee as Derek pretends to try to catch his toes. “What are we getting Peter for his birthday? I mean, he’s such a snob. What if we bought the wrong sort of cheese knife or something?”

John listens with a smile, flicking through the newspaper.

“Der?” Stiles asks.

Derek exhales slowly. “I have no idea. Wine? Books?”

“But what if we got the wrong wine?” Stiles asks. “Or, worse, the sort of book you can buy at the airport?”

John huffs out a silent laugh and turns the page of the newspaper.

“I don’t know,” Derek says. “Um… did you ask Laura?”

“She said to ask you!”

John snorts.

“What?” Stiles asks. “Like you’ve already found him the perfect present or something?”

His tone of voice says he doesn’t believe it for a second.

“I have, actually,” John says smugly.

“Is it cologne?” Stiles asks. “Or a fancy brand of tie you can only buy in France? Or some type of poisonous orchid that only blooms once every hundred years or something? Peter would totally be into that.”

“Kid, I sometimes worry about where your brain takes you,” John says.

“You and Derek should start a club.” Stiles lifts Jamie up and blows a raspberry on his tummy. “Seriously though, what have you got Peter for his birthday?”

“None of your business,” John tells him, and thinks of the Green Day tickets he’s got stashed away in his gun safe in his office.

Peter’s still a punk kid at heart. John thinks he’ll love it.

 

***

 

Peter does.

 

 


End file.
